Читать книгу Husband By Contract - HELEN BROOKS, Helen Brooks - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

‘EXCUSE me, but are you feeling all right?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Grace felt as though she had just returned from a dark, cold place as she focused her deep blue eyes on the concerned face of the stewardess bending over her, the gentle murmur of conversation from the other passengers on the plane penetrating the horror that had held her in its grip. ‘Oh, yes, yes, thank you, I’m fine.’ The pretty young face watching her didn’t look convinced and she added quickly, ‘A headache. I’ve had a headache all day, that’s all.’

‘Oh, you should have said.’ The tall, slim stewardess smiled her professional smile of sympathy as she straightened. ‘I’ll get you a couple of aspirin, shall I?’

‘Thank you.’ Grace nodded her appreciation. ‘If it’s no trouble,’ she added quietly, forcing a smile from somewhere.

A headache. If only this fear and panic that had made eating and sleeping impossible since she had received the telegram could be dealt with as easily as a headache. The flat formality of the printed words swam into her mind again as her stomach churned.

I have been instructed by Donato Vittoria to inform you of the sudden death of his mother, and to request your presence at the funeral on 23rd April. The service will be held at the Church of the Madonna di Mezz’ Loreto at midday.

That had been all. No explanation, no suggestion that she call or contact the family in any way, just a cold, terse announcement from the Vittorias’ solicitor, Signor Fellini.

But it hadn’t really been an announcement, had it? she thought sickly. It was a demand, a decree, by the autocratic head of the Vittoria clan, whose word was law and power absolute. Donato. Oh, God, I shan’t be able to stand it, she prayed desperately; help me get through the next few days...

‘Here we are.’ Again the smooth, pleasant voice of the stewardess brought her back from the edge of despair and into the real world as she handed Grace a glass of water and the aspirin. ‘Not long now and we’ll be landing; you’ll feel better then,’ she added brightly, the tone faintly patronising.

‘Thank you.’ Grace obediently swallowed both the aspirin and the water and settled back in her seat as she closed her eyes. She knew what the stewardess was thinking; it had been transparently obvious. Poor little thing, she’s frightened of flying. Well, she was frightened all right, absolutely terrified, but not of flying.

Oh, she had to pull herself together, she told herself angrily. She was a grown woman of twenty-three, not some nervous, over-excited schoolgirl who couldn’t say boo to a goose. If only she looked her twenty-three years, that would give her a little more confidence for the days ahead, but her petite five feet four inches added to red-gold curls that defied all efforts at smoothness and a naturally elfin face took at least five years off her age despite her careful choice of clothes.

But she was old inside. She shuddered, her hands clenching on her lap. Ancient, antediluvian inside. More than old enough to cope with Donato and the rest of the Vittoria family.

That thought carried her through the rest of the journey and the arrival at Naples airport, and once through Customs she collected the one suitcase she had brought with her and prepared to find a taxi, her face white and strained and her small, slim body held erect amidst all the bustle and chaos around her.

‘Grace.’ She froze for an infinitesimal moment, mind and body registering the shock of hearing that deep, cool voice with its heavy Italian accent speaking her name, and then forced herself to turn slowly as she took a long, steadying breath.

‘Donato.’ A smile was beyond her as she took in the tall, dark man watching her so closely, his black eyes narrowed in the tanned hardness of his face and his firm, sensual mouth unsmiling like hers. He was still the same! She felt her heart begin to slam against her ribcage with the force of a sledge-hammer and willed the panic to cease. She had to be in control, give the impression of calm and cold restraint; anything else would be seized upon as weakness and used against her. ‘I’m very sony about your mother,’ she said quietly, hoping the slight quiver in her voice would pass unnoticed. ‘She was a truly great lady.’

‘Yes, she was.’ He was standing very still, his loose-fitting trousers and dark blue cotton shirt immaculate as always and sitting on the big, lithe body in a way guaranteed to make any female heart beat a little faster.

But not hers. Grace took another hidden breath before she spoke. Definitely not hers, never again. ‘The telegram said it was sudden?’ she asked carefully, keeping her voice neutral. His had been quite expressionless, cold and flat.

‘A haemorrhage, in the brain.’ He touched his forehead as he spoke, the movement emphasising the heavy gold watch on his wrist and the thick gold band on the third finger of his left hand. ‘She knew nothing about it. Now...’ He turned slightly, gesturing to someone behind him. ‘Antonio will take your bags—’

‘I’m not staying at Casa Pontina!’ She had spoken too sharply and too quickly but it was too late to try and moderate her tone as the handsome male face in front of her darkened. ‘I... I’ve made arrangements,’ she said hastily. ‘It’s all taken care of.’ How had he known of her arrival? Why was he here? What was all this in aid of? As the numbing shock of the sudden encounter began to fade Grace found a barrage of questions attacking her mind.

‘Where else would you stay but at Casa Pontina?’ The arrogance was pure Vittoria and as such hit her on the raw, causing her soft mouth to tighten in response to the challenge.

‘I’m booked in at the Hotel La Pergola,’ she said coldly, ‘for three nights.’

‘I think not.’ He smiled now, but it didn’t touch the glittering blackness of his eyes. ‘It would not be fitting in the circumstances and this you know. It will be expected that you stay at Casa Pontina.’

He spoke as if the matter were settled, and as the uniformed chauffeur reached for her case again at Donato’s tight nod she found herself whisking it behind her and stepping back a pace. ‘I don’t have to do what is expected of me, not any more,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’m answerable to myself and no one else. You can’t order me about like you do everyone else.’

‘Everyone, Grace?’ The dark voice was quiet and silky now, with a thread of steel that she knew was meant to intimidate. ‘I had forgotten how you like to exaggerate.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ she tossed back bitterly. ‘I’m only surprised you remember my name.’

‘Oh, I remember your name, mia piccola.’ The soft endearment hit her like a punch in the chest and it took all of her will-power not to let it show. ‘I remember everything about you. Now, you will let Antonio take your luggage,’ he continued in a smooth, conversational tone of voice that was belied by the glittering intensity in his eyes, ‘and you will stay at Casa Pontina.’

‘Why should I?’ she asked hotly, her blue eyes stormy.

‘Because it is what my mother would have wanted.’

She stared at him, the anger and bitter resentment draining away as the truth in his words left her pale and shaking. Liliana would have wanted her to stay at the family home, she acknowledged painfully. In fact the matriarch of the Vittoria clan would have been horrified at anything else.

This was one last thing she could do for Liliana, she thought sadly, for the tall, proud, aristocratic Italian woman who had wielded such power and influence within her own family and shown Grace nothing but love and kindness from their first meeting. Yes, she would do this for Liliana; for Liliana she would even endure living under the same roof as Donato for three days and nights.

‘Very well.’ She saw the flash of triumph in the jet-black eyes and had to bite her lip to prevent more hot words. Liliana was dead, the last tentative link with Italy was broken by her demise, and she would endeavour to see out this final travesty with the sort of dignity and aplomb that the genteel Italian woman would have expected from her. ‘I shall have to cancel my reservation at La Pergola on the way to Casa Pontina.’

‘Sì, of course; this will be no problem.’ The words were smooth and self-satisfied and caused her stomach muscles to tighten.

Donato nodded in a sharp little bow, clicking his fingers at Antonio, who reached behind her for the case, his pock-marked face beneath its chauffeur’s cap of blue and gold apologetic. ‘Scusi, signora.’ The voice was humble, the appearance of the big, beefy individual anything but.

Antonio might not know any English, Grace reflected with a touch of wryness, but he had certainly had no trouble in following the general theme of the conversation.

She had always thought Donato’s chauffeur resembled a member of the Sicilian mafia rather than a household servant, and this idea was reinforced now as she followed the swarthy, dark figure out to the Vittoria Mercedes, Donato’s hand at her elbow, feeling for all the world as though she was being led to her execution.

The fifty-or-so-mile drive to Donato’s magnificent villa in Sorrento would be no problem—the Mercedes’ excellent air conditioning added to the fact that the late-April temperature was only just touching seventy degrees made travelling at midday still a pleasure, unlike in high summer—but sitting in close proximity to Donato for well over an hour was a different matter.

Grace had planned to stay overnight in Naples and travel down to Sorrento early the next morning by hire car in time for the funeral, returning the same day. That would have meant she could have paid her last respects to Liliana while retaining some degree of independence, but...she might have known Donato would overrule any arrangements she had made.

Donato opened the car door for her but she paused before sliding in, looking up into his cold, handsome face as she asked, ‘How did you know I was coming today, and on that flight?’

‘Does it matter?’ His voice was cool and dismissive, his manner remote. It was an attitude she had seen him adopt many times in the past and it usually had the desired effect of forestalling further conversation, but not so with her, and not today.

‘Yes, it does, to me.’ She continued to hold his glance, her vivid blue eyes with their thick, curling lashes dark with determination. ‘I wasn’t aware I told anyone of my plans.’

‘Possibly not,’ he said.

‘Well, then?’ Her gaze was becoming a glare but she couldn’t do anything about it; his arrogance was bringing up a strong feeling of rebellion. ‘How did you know?’ she asked again.

‘I know most things about you, Grace.’ The way he said her name still had the power to make her weak but she would rather have walked through coals of fire than admit it, even to herself.

‘Meaning?’ she snapped tightly, her eyes hot.

‘You want me to list all the things I know about you?’ he asked smoothly, with simulated surprise. ‘Here? Where we could so easily be overheard?’

‘Stop playing games, Donato.’ She said it with a touch of weariness that narrowed his eyes on the whiteness of her face, in which exhaustion was suddenly all too evident

‘Is that what you think I am doing, mia piccola?’ he said softly. ‘Playing the game? Nothing could be further from the truth.’ For a moment something fierce and hot blazed in the heavily lashed black eyes but then his lids shuttered the fire as he half turned from her, gesturing into the car. ‘Get in and I will tell you what you wish to know.’

She got in—there was really little else she could do after all, she told herself flatly—and when he joined her a moment later on the spacious back seat, and her senses caught a whiff of the familiar aftershave he had specially made for him, the wickedly blended allure of spices and lemon and something indefinable made her nerve-ends jump. How many nights had she spent locked in his arms, she asked herself tremulously, breathing in that heady fragrance after hours of mad, passionate love? Hours that had sent her up to the heights, hours that had had her begging, pleading for sweet relief and then barely able to stand the ecstasy when he had obliged.

She had thought then that they would be together for the rest of their lives, that nothing in this world or the one beyond could possibly separate them, that they were two halves of one glorious whole. But she had learnt... Her mouth tightened and she breathed deeply through her nostrils. Oh, how she had learnt.

‘Well?’ She forced her face to remain blank as she turned slightly, although his nearness sent her heart flickering into her throat. ‘How did you know I was arriving today?’

‘I have been aware of all your movements in the last year, Grace,’ he said calmly. ‘You surely did not think it could be otherwise?’

‘All of my movements?’ she echoed, puzzled. ‘I really don’t see...’ And then it dawned. ‘You don’t mean... You haven’t had me watched?’ she asked angrily, her voice and colour rising in unison. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Of course.’ He eyed her coldly, the straight line of his mouth expressing distaste at her lack of control.

‘Of course?’ Her cry of outrage made him wince slightly, but she had given up trying to maintain the new cool image; she had never been so furious in all her life. ‘You dare to sit there and tell me you’ve been spying on me,’ she hissed heatedly, ‘without the slightest shred of guilt or embarrassment? How dared you do that, Donato? I can’t believe even you would sink so low.’

‘Careful, Grace.’ He leant towards her now, his face stony and his eyes dark, glittering chips of black ice. ‘I will only permit so much.’

‘You will only permit so much?’ She was quite oblivious to the big car negotiating its way out of the airport surroundings or of Antonio sitting stoically in the driving seat. The glass partition made their conversation inaudible but no one could have doubted the tenor of their exchange. ‘And what about me? What about what I will permit? You tell me you’ve invaded my privacy, reduced me to a goldfish in a glass bowl—’

He swore, softly and vehemently in swift Italian, before growling, ‘This is a ridiculous conversation and one which I have no inclination to continue. There is no question that you are the fish in the bowl.’

‘But you paid someone to spy on me!’ she spat shrilly. ‘What gives you the right to think you can act like that? It’s...it’s immoral.’

‘I will not discuss this with you until you can control yourself,’ he said icily, ‘and I have no wish to argue with you at this time, Grace. It is not fitting.’

His words brought the image of Liliana’s proud, beautiful face onto the screen of her mind, and she clenched her teeth in an effort to prevent more hot accusations spilling out. She was here for his mother’s funeral—she had to remember that, she told herself painfully, and if there was one thing she was sure of it was that Donato had loved Liliana dearly. But once she was back in England...

She bit her lip as she forced the rage to subside. There was no way she was going to let such a situation continue. For twelve months she had hesitated to proceed along the road she had chosen but now the way was clear and free of obstacles. There was no reason to vacillate any longer—she knew it in her heart—but still, still it hurt, and she was angry, furious with herself because of it. But this last outrage had confirmed everything. Her mouth tightened and she took a long, silent breath to ease the churning in her stomach. The die was cast.

When they arrived at the Hotel La Pergola Donato leant forward and slid the glass partition aside as Antonio brought the car to a standstill on the pebbled sweep of drive in front of the gracious building. ‘Antonio will see to the cancellation,’ he said over his shoulder to Grace as the powerful engine died.

‘I would prefer to do it myself,’ she said quickly. She had conceded to his insistence that she stay at Casa Pontina for Liliana’s sake, but he might as well learn right now that she was capable of running her own life without his assistance.

‘As you wish.’ The voice was lazy, the expression in his eyes anything but as she climbed out of the car before Antonio could open her door and marched stiffly up the wide, curving steps and into the hotel interior without glancing back.

Once inside she paused for a moment before continuing to the massive semicircular reception desk, aware that her legs were shaking and her stomach trembling at the shock of seeing him again. ‘Control, control, Grace,’ she murmured quietly to herself, earning a sidelong glance from an old Italian couple who were passing. Their relationship was over, irrevocably over, he knew that as well as she did. All she had to do was get through the next day or two as best she could until she could fly home to her tiny flat and job as receptionist at the local doctors’ surgery in a quiet part of Kent.

The hotel accepted her explanation that friends had picked her up from the airport and were insisting she stay with them with customary Italian good humour, and within a few minutes they were on their way again, driving deeper into the countryside where the magic of Italy reached out to touch her. She had always loved the country, from the first moment she had set foot in it five years before, as an eager eighteen-year-old desperate to prove herself in her new position as nanny to a wealthy Italian couple with two children, until the agonising parting a year ago.

She was particularly receptive to beauty, and the winding streets of terracotta-roofed stone houses, ancient gothic cathedrals and medieval fountains, poplar-shaded farmsteads surrounded by vineyards and olive groves, and the unspoilt tranquillity of the real Italy, had moved her to tears in the early days.

Sorrento, the family home of the Vittorias for centuries, was quaint, colourful and romantic, and their magnificent seventeenth-century villa, situated high above the blue waters of the Bay of Naples, had panoramic views from its wonderful old balconies bright with trailing bougainvillea. The whole area around Sorrento was a treasure trove of mythology, history and scenic splendour, and Grace had fallen deeply and hopelessly in love with it and...Donato.

He was a friend of the young couple whose children she had come out to nanny, and almost from their first meeting, when she had been in Italy all of two weeks, she had known she loved him. He was wildly handsome, an experienced and worldly-wise twenty-five to her innocent eighteen, and he’d swept her off her feet, utterly and completely.

How was she going to get through the next three days staying at Casa Pontina? Grace asked herself now, aware that the powerful memories the grand old house—named after the southern wind of Sorrento—was capable of evoking would not be conducive to her peace of mind.

As the oldest son Donato had inherited the villa and the Vittoria estate and businesses on his father’s death just months before Grace had first come to Italy, and he ran his small empire with the help of a management team of trusted employees who were completely committed to both Donato and the Vittoria name.

Bianca, Donato’s adopted sister, had married his best friend at seventeen and lived some miles away in the Sant’Agnello district of Sorrento where her husband cultivated his large crop of orange groves, although it was the Bellini business interests in Naples that had provided her husband with his vast wealth.

Although Bianca was only a month or two younger than Grace the two girls had never become friends, Bianca’s jealousy and bitterness at Grace’s popularity within the family remaining despite all Grace’s efforts to win the beautiful Italian girl over. Bianca had particularly resented Grace’s closeness to little Lorenzo, the youngest member of the Vittoria family, who had been something of a miracle baby, his parents having been told at Donato’s birth that no more children were possible. He had adored Grace with the devotion of a small puppy and she had loved him right back.

‘There was no problem at your hasty departure?’ Donato’s cool, deep voice broke into her thoughts of Lorenzo and brought her eyes to his dark profile. For a moment she thought he was referring to that other soul-searing time, so firmly had her mind retreated into the past, but then realisation dawned.

‘No.’ She quickly lowered her gaze; the hard-boned male face with its strong classical features and firm, sensual mouth still possessed a magnetism that was unnerving. ‘Everyone was very understanding,’ she said quietly.

‘And Dr Penn? He too was...very understanding?’ Donato asked expressionlessly without turning to glance her way.

‘Jim? Yes, of course; I’ve said, haven’t I? Everyone was very sympathetic...’ Her voice trailed away and she raised her eyes to his face again but the cold façade was blank, no emotion in the stony features as he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

She didn’t ask how he knew the individual doctors’ names; no doubt his source had been very thorough, she thought tightly, but why pick Jim Penn out for special mention above the other three doctors at the busy surgery?

‘This is good.’ Donato’s voice was smooth, too smooth, and now he turned to her slowly, his dark eyes flashing over her pale face and his mouth twisting in a smile that was no smile at all. ‘I’m sure you will be greatly missed.’

‘I doubt it, not in a week.’ There was something here she didn’t understand, another undercurrent flowing into the dark, turbulent river that made up her relationship with the Vittorias—and one Vittoria in particular. ‘There’s another girl, Claire, a friend of mine, and she is very efficient.’

‘I was not talking about efficiency,’ he said softly, ‘but being missed.’

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes wary, before saying, ‘Now look, Donato, I told you I’m not into playing games—’

‘And I am not into the game-playing either,’ he bit out savagely, all pretence at coolness gone. ‘Have you forgotten Lorenzo, Grace—have you? Because I can assure you the child has not forgotten you! Since my mother’s death it is your name that is constantly on his lips, your love that he is crying for as he refuses all comfort and solace. He was devastated when you left a year ago—’

‘Don’t you dare blame that on me,’ she spat angrily. ‘You know why I left; you made it impossible for me to stay.’

‘You did what you wanted to do.’ He had immediately regained control of himself, his voice icy and his face cold and blank. ‘You did not think it fitting to discuss your departure with me first; you simply walked away, did you not?’

‘You could have followed me,’ she said tightly, and it wasn’t until she said the words, voicing them aloud for the first time, that she realised she had never expected that he would do anything else but come after her, not in her heart of hearts. But he hadn’t. And the days had turned into weeks and the weeks into months and she had slowly died inside, the bitterness of his betrayal on top of everything else she had endured turning her love to ashes.

‘To do what?’ he asked flatly. ‘To begin once again the endless quarrels, the pain, the suffering? I thought you had suffered enough, that you wanted peace.’

‘I did; I do.’ He had cared so little that he had just let her go. The knowledge beat against her brain, making her voice die and her body go limp. And even now the telegram, the request that she attend Liliana’s funeral, had not been sent to her because he wanted to see her, because there was any faint spark of the love they had once shared left in that cold, cold heart. Lorenzo was upset and Donato had thought the boy would be comforted by her presence. It was as simple as that. Oh, she hated him—she did; she loathed, detested, hated him...

The rest of the journey—along winding roads which passed small villages spangled and pretty in the afternoon sun—was completed without further conversation, the atmosphere in the car thick and heavy and taut with a thousand words best left unsaid.

Grace felt ill with the raw emotion that had taken hold of her and was shocked beyond measure to find that Donato could still affect her so violently. She had hoped, wanted, needed to find herself immune to him, to have the assurance that that stage of her life—the Donato stage—was over and done with, that the post-mortems were finally completed. Indifference...that was what she had prayed for; she had wanted to be dispassionate and distant, unmoved by hatred and resentment and bitterness, at long last able to put the past to rest.

But now the instigator of all her pain was getting in the way... But no, that wasn’t quite fair, she corrected herself silently. They had been happy once, before—

Her mind slammed to a halt, recognising its own frailty. She couldn’t think of it now; she would break down in front of him and that would be the final humiliation. One minute, one hour, one day at a time; that was what she had told herself all those many, many months ago, and when she managed to keep to that she got through—just.

Nevertheless, as the powerful car ate up the miles and they entered the narrow streets of Sorrento she knew where her first visit had to be; she was being pulled there by something stronger than herself. The scent of lemon groves hung heavy in the air as they climbed into the hills towards Casa Pontina, and when they passed through the large wrought-iron gates into the Vittoria estate she found she was on the edge of her seat.

‘Can...can we go to the walled garden?’ Her voice was the merest whisper but he heard it, his head shooting round and his piercing black eyes fastening on her face.

‘I do not think this would be a good idea,’ he said quietly. ‘You are tired from the journey and Lorenzo is waiting—’

‘I don’t care.’ She glanced at him once before staring fixedly ahead again, but such was the look on her face that he said no more to her, leaning forward and sliding the glass partition aside before giving an order in swift Italian to Antonio.

The Vittoria gardens were huge, bursting with tropical trees and shrubs, cascade upon cascade of sweet-smelling flowers, smooth green lawns, hidden bowers and a fine orchard where orange, apricot, olive, almond, fig and banana trees all lived in harmony, but it was to the tiny, shadow-blotched walled garden that Antonio drove, its ancient walls mellow and sun-soaked and protected by a huge evergreen oak that provided welcome shade in the height of summer.

‘Grace?’ Donato caught her arm as she went to move past him after leaving the car, turning her to face him. ‘Would this not be better tomorrow?’ he asked softly, his eyes intent on hers.

‘Lorenzo won’t mind waiting a few minutes more—’

‘I was not thinking of Lorenzo.’ His voice had been too harsh and he took a deep breath before he spoke again. ‘I was thinking of you,’ he said flatly.

But she didn’t hear him, her eyes, mind and soul fixed on the high wooden gate at the top of the long slope that led from the drive, remembering how it had been that day in June, nearly two years ago, when she had been demented with grief.

Donato took her hand as they walked up the stone path and she let her fingers rest in his—she really couldn’t find the strength to fight him at that moment—and then he was opening the gate and she stepped into the sheltered confines of the walled garden, her stomach jumping into her throat.

‘It looks just the same,’ she said softly, and Donato nodded at her side.

‘Of course, nothing will be changed here.’

The ancient walls were brilliant in places with trailing purple, red and white bougainvillea, lemon-scented verbenas perfuming the air along with pink begonia and a whole host of other flowers. A small patch of lawn in the middle of the garden had a tinkling fountain at its centre, and several seats were dotted round the small enclosure alongside sweet-smelling shrubs and bushes specially chosen for their fragrance.

It was tranquil, peaceful, a sheltered oasis amidst the bustle of life that surrounded the Vittoria empire, and once Grace had been used to spending lazy hours in the ancient retreat—lazy and exquisitely happy hours.

They walked to the end of the garden now, where a little foot-high wall enclosed a slightly raised small rectangle of ground that was ablaze with tiny flowers, a headstone cut in the shape of a teddy bear bearing the inscription, ‘Precious memories of Paolo Donato Vittoria, aged six months, baby son of Donato and Grace. You have taken our hearts with you.’